Lifetime Burning

by Gillard, Linda

  ‘I think there is a thornless variety.’

  ‘Really?’ Theo’s face brightened. ‘Could you tell Gran about it, please? Would it look OK massed in beds? That would make my life a whole lot easier.’ He rubbed at the scratches on his arm and Charlotte cried out in alarm.

  ‘Don’t do that. Your hands are filthy!’

  Theo ignored her and turned back to look at the flowerbed. ‘She should have permanent planting under those roses. Perennials. Ground cover to keep down the weeds. It would save a lot of work and it would make the border more interesting.’

  ‘Why don’t you suggest it?’

  ‘She wouldn’t listen to me, I’m only the gardener’s boy.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll get Dad to suggest it.’

  Charlotte glanced round the garden. ‘Where is Hugh? He surely can’t be indoors on a day like today?’

  ‘He’s in the orchard, braving the wasps, picking plums. Rather him than me.’

  ‘Coward.’

  ‘Dead right.’

  ‘Your love of wildlife doesn’t extend to wasps then?’

  ‘Only as architects. Have you ever seen a wasps’ nest? A work of art.’ Taking off his hat, he ran a hand through his hair, darkened now with sweat. The damp and dusty curls clung to his neck and forehead. ‘Be a darling and get me a drink, would you?’

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, something cold. Water’ll do. “Adam’s ale”, as Dad would say. But Gran might like some tea.’ He turned and surveyed the border again while Charlotte fetched a glass and filled the kettle. ‘What she needs are some hardy geraniums and some low-growing shrubs. Grey foliage perhaps. That would make a good foil for the roses.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Charlotte handed him a glass of water and watched as he downed it in one. ‘Kettle’s on. Look, will you let me put a plaster on that cut?’

  He shook his head and handed back the glass. ‘That’s better, thanks. You staying for lunch?’

  ‘Am I invited?’

  ‘Of course. There’s a standing invitation. But you might have to prepare it.’ Theo smiled his light-bulb smile and Charlotte found herself smiling back, even though she’d planned a sharp retort.

  Before she could stop herself she said, ‘Shall I make a cake?’

  Theo’s face lit up. He treated her to the smile again and she wondered if that was why she’d made the rash offer. His face fell suddenly and he assumed a grave expression. ‘Hang about - this is all getting a bit gender-stereotyped, isn’t it? Surely baking goes against your politico-feminist principles?’

  ‘Not at weekends.’

  Theo grinned at her again and Charlotte giggled for no reason - no reason at all that she could see.

  After she’d put her cake into the Aga, Charlotte spent the afternoon working with Theo in the garden while Dora dozed in the shade. The young people said very little to each other. Occasionally Charlotte would ask Theo to identify which were weeds and which were plants in an overgrown patch, then he would fork over the border while she cleared away the rubbish and hand-weeded.

  At four o’clock they all took a break and Charlotte served tea, a dish of plums and cake on the lawn. Dora was ecstatic at the sight of tidy borders and Hugh was ecstatic at the sight of ginger cake. Theo ate three slices.

  As she cleared away Charlotte laid a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. ‘Shall I give you a hand with dead-heading the roses?’

  ‘Oh, would you, my dear? That would be such a help. I find the secateurs so awkward - it’s infuriating! Just collect the flower heads in a bucket and we’ll burn them later… Or—’ She looked up at Hugh. ‘Perhaps we should compost them?’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me,’ Hugh said, setting down his plate, cleared even of crumbs. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the compost heap.’

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s a disgrace, and situated in quite the wrong place.’

  ‘Well, it is a bit conspicuous, I suppose. But I had an idea when I was washing up this morning and looking out of the window. Why don’t we turn that patch into a herb garden? It would be ideal. The soil’s really poor and the bed’s south-facing. Perfect for herbs. If you put some taller things at the back, such as - oh, I don’t know - what would do well there, Theo?’

  ‘Bronze fennel. Angelica. Borage,’ Theo mumbled, his mouth full of cake.

  ‘Yes, just the job! They’d screen the compost heap. It could make quite a pretty feature. Positively Mediterranean, with the scents of sage and thyme and bees humming.’

  Silence fell as they contemplated Hugh’s vision of a transformed compost heap. Charlotte’s mouth twitched and she caught Theo’s eye. ‘That would be a good name for a lady gardener, wouldn’t it? One of those county types in green wellies and a waxed jacket.’

  Theo frowned. ‘What would?’

  ‘Angelica Borage.’

  Theo looked away, selected a discarded plum stone and, with casual but deadly accuracy, lobbed it into Charlotte’s teacup.

  Smiling, she basked in his disapproval.

  1975

  Theo rounded the corner on his roller skates just in time to see Colin shove his sister in the chest, pushing her over backwards on to the path. Charlotte began to wail like a siren, even before she hit the gravel. Colin stared down at her for a moment, shocked by his own violence, then turned and ran.

  Theo unbuckled his skates and hurried across the grass to Charlotte. He grabbed her hand to pull her to her feet but she shrieked. He let go and she spread her palms wordlessly, revealing tiny stones embedded in her skin. Theo bent and put his arms around her ribcage and lifted her, still crying, on to her feet. He took one of her hands and gently brushed away the stones, carefully picking out those that remained embedded. As he started on the other hand, Charlotte composed herself, then yelled, at no great distance from Theo’s ear, ‘I hate him!’

  He flinched and asked, ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ She sniffed. ‘Because he’s a pig.’

  ‘He probably didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘Yes, he did! He’s always hurting me!’

  ‘Well, you’re not bleeding very much. That’s something.’ Charlotte started to wriggle, hopping from one foot to another. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think I’ve got stones in my knickers.’

  Theo, ever practical, said, ‘Jump up and down. They’ll fall out.’ Charlotte did a little war-dance on the path, shedding gravel, while Theo looked away tactfully. ‘All right now?’ She nodded, blushing. ‘You’d better go and wash your hands.’

  ‘But they hurt.’

  ‘Gran’s got some magic cream. Ask her to put some on. It stops the sting.’

  ‘I hate Colin,’ she said rubbing her sore palms. Theo was silent, his loyalties divided. ‘I wish you were my brother.’

  ‘Well, I’m your cousin. That’s almost as good. And I’m your friend.’

  ‘Will you always be my friend?’ Charlotte asked, brightening. Being only seven, she was much preoccupied with the impermanence of playground alliances.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Theo. ‘And friends are better than brothers anyway. My dad says friends are God’s apology.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For your relations.’

  My son grew into a fine young man. Apparently. I wasn’t there to witness it. He appeared to inherit the best from both his fathers: a sensitive intelligence and caustic wit from Rory and an all-embracing generosity of spirit from Hugh. From both men he inherited a love and respect for all living things. ‘One is nearer God’s heart in a garden.’ Apparently.

  And what did I throw into that murky gene pool?

  Looks. Theo was striking even as a boy. I thought when he grew up he would probably take after Rory. I hadn’t reckoned on the height he would finally attain or how his refinement of feature would make him so much more handsome than Rory, handsome almost to the point of beauty.

  I never saw Theo in his prime. I saw him once or twice as a spotty, awkward youth after I’d
left the vicarage, when we were all still going through the motions of keeping in touch and Hugh insisted on sending me the occasional photograph. Then I saw Theo at my funeral, aged thirty-four, dressed, very becomingly, in black. He was tall, thin, detached, sardonic, his face finely lined by the rigours of an outdoor life and a broken heart. There was no mistaking whose son he was at my funeral, but by then everyone knew who Theo was. Except perhaps Theo. Theo didn’t appear to know who or what he was, any more than I ever had. All he knew was whose child he was, which wasn’t quite the same thing.

  When I saw Theo at my funeral - I sensed he was still angry with me even then - I saw Rory’s son, Hugh’s son, but not mine. (Had Theo ever been mine? Had I ever allowed him to be?) He had good reason to hate me and he tried very hard to hate Rory too. I’m quite sure Hugh did everything in his power to persuade Theo to forgive us, or at least understand. But Theo couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. In that at least he was not Hugh’s son. In every other respect, the impossibly tall, impossibly handsome young man casting a professional eye over the crematorium flowerbeds might have been - and in a way was - Hugh’s son.

  My legacy to Theo Wentworth was a passionate, unchanging heart, a talent for loneliness and a capacity for guilt.

  Poor Theo.

  My poor son Theodore, gift of God.

  We should have loved each other. Or at least understood each other. Then perhaps we might have been able to forgive each other.

  Chapter 21

  The drama students adopted me as a sort of mascot. They saw me as something between a big sister and a counsellor and they’d perch on my desk, drinking execrable coffee from plastic cups while they confided in me, detailing their torments and triumphs. I did my best to listen sympathetically and offered the wisdom of maturity, or if not maturity, the experience of a woman who had, by then, been around the block a few times. I didn’t have a lot of natural sympathy with all their frustrated ambition, but I seem to remember I was pretty sound on unrequited love and hangover cures.

  They called me Flo and bought me doughnuts and occasionally drinks in the pub on Friday. They rehearsed speeches in front of my desk, bitched about each other and slandered the teaching staff. I saw the students as my charges, but they paid me the enormous compliment of treating me as if I were their friend. I wasn’t, of course. I was old enough to be their mother, but we had a satisfactory arrangement based on mutual respect and affection.

  I thought I had it all under control.

  Perhaps I might have made some real friends if it hadn’t been for the students. Perhaps if I’d had real friends I might not have got involved with Colin, but Colin moved the goalposts by becoming a real friend. We were so comfortable and easy together, he was such good company, that I didn’t really notice what was happening. Then he moved the goalposts again - right off the pitch this time - by treating me not as a secretary, aunt or even friend, but as a desirable woman.

  I was forty-three, living alone in relative poverty, separated from a husband and son I never saw and lonely to the very marrow of my bones. You think I was going to look the other way?…

  1985

  Flora tidied her desk, tucked her Thermos into her shopping bag, closed the office door and locked it. As she passed the rehearsal room she heard sounds of a struggle and a woman shouting, as if in fear for her life. Flora knew it must be students rehearsing but decided to check anyway. She knocked gently and opened the door. Colin was standing over a female student who lay on the floor cowering as he spoke - Stephanie, a tall girl with a strong clear voice, whose height tended to land her mature roles. Unnoticed by the students, Flora recognised at once the closet scene from Hamlet. She watched for a few moments and was about to withdraw when Colin straightened up suddenly, put his hands on his hips and said ‘Bugger’. The girl prompted him quickly but he waved an impatient hand at her.

  ‘No, I know what comes next! Look, this just isn’t working. I’m delivering all my lines to the floor. The audience can’t see me, they can’t see you. It’s just… boring.’

  ‘It’s certainly not that,’ Flora said from the doorway. Two heads shot up and looked towards her. ‘But there’s more mileage to be got out of placing her on the bed.’

  A grin replaced Colin’s scowl. ‘Flo, come on in! Come and help us out here. We’re floundering.’

  Flora noticed that Stephanie’s smile wasn’t quite so welcoming and wondered if she’d interrupted more than just a rehearsal.

  ‘Oh, you don’t want me butting in. Believe me, once I get started on Hamlet I could bore for England. I’m sure you can sort it out yourselves. Just get her up on the bed.’ Flora attempted to withdraw but Colin came bounding over and pulled her into the room.

  ‘No, honestly. We really need an audience. Please - spare us a few minutes. Our blocking’s all wrong, I know it is. I feel a complete prat. Can you just watch for a bit?’

  Flora turned to Stephanie who was watching them, fiddling with her hair, her body language eloquent. ‘Is that OK with you, Stephanie?’

  ‘Fine… We’ve only just come off the book, so it’s a bit rough.’

  ‘That’s good, that’s just how the scene should look. Hamlet’s terrorising his mother, he’s out of control. You don’t want it looking choreographed.’

  Colin beamed at Flora then at Stephanie. ‘You see? I knew she’d say something helpful. The fact that we’re under-rehearsed and peeing ourselves with fright is an asset.’ Colin yanked a chair off a stack and placed it with a flourish in the middle of the room. ‘Take a seat, madam.’ Flora removed her coat and sat obediently. ‘Can we go from after I’ve killed Polonius? Robbie’s buggered off early as usual.’

  ‘Start where you like. I know the scene pretty well.’

  ‘Did you ever play it?’ Stephanie asked pointedly.

  ‘Good lord, no. I was an Ophelia, not a Gertrude. Being so small I used to get the fey, fairy parts. Very tedious.’

  Colin gave her an appraising look and Flora felt momentarily uncomfortable. ‘You, tedious? Never! I can imagine you as Ophelia. I bet your mad scene was good.’

  Stephanie cleared her throat loudly. ‘Shall we get started?’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Flo, will you read the Ghost? It’s only one speech.’ He tossed her a battered copy of the text. ‘Act Three, scene four. Let’s go from “Now mother, what’s the matter?” ’

  As the students took up their positions, Flora called out, ‘Play the scene without stopping if you can. Just keep going, whatever happens. If you can get that drive, it’s hair-raising. The audience should be as scared as Gertrude.’

  They played the scene and the problems soon became apparent. Flora wondered how to address them tactfully. Both actors were miscast. Stephanie was twenty years too young for her rôle; worse, she evidently saw herself as a leading lady and was trying to dominate the scene, maintaining her regal composure as if she were still in control, not in mortal fear. Colin, relaxed and amiable as ever, seemed reluctant to manhandle Stephanie for fear of hurting her. His angry tirades were almost respectful.

  Flora stood up at the end of the scene and walked towards them applauding. ‘Well done, both of you! You’ve got the scene basically, but there’s so much more in it. Are you sure you want me to tell you where I think you’re going wrong? I mean, it’s only my opinion, after all. I’m no director.’

  ‘No, go ahead. We want feedback. Don’t we, Steph?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she answered doubtfully.

  ‘Right, then.’ Flora took a deep breath. As she thought, she placed her palms together in front of her lips and stared down at the floor. She’d first read Hamlet when she was fourteen. She hadn’t really understood the play but she’d grasped enough to feel moved, excited, disturbed. She’d discussed it with Rory when he studied it for A-level and her reading had subsequently been coloured by his morbid but simple view of the play: It’s all about sex and death, isn’t it? God knows why they think school kids should study it. Flora pushed the thought of Rory to the back
of her mind and turned to face Colin. ‘This scene isn’t just an argument about Gertrude’s sex life, which is how you’re playing it. It’s about sexual disgust. Hamlet is revolted by the idea of his mum and Claudius in bed together. He thinks she should have given all that up when Daddy died. At her age it’s just obscene. So, Colin, you’re not just angry with her, you’re outraged, OK? Now, Stephanie… How old do you think Gertrude is?’

  The girl looked blank. ‘I don’t know exactly. Middle-aged, I suppose. Hamlet’s meant to be thirty, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s one reading. If Gertrude had him when she was sixteen that would make her forty-six. Three years older than me.’

  ‘Not exactly drawing her pension, then,’ Colin added.

  Flora shot Colin a look. ‘Quite. And if you play Hamlet younger - after all, he’s a student, home for his father’s funeral - Gertrude could be under forty. Decide how old she is and play that age. Don’t be vague.’ Flora turned back to her nephew. ‘It’s good, Colin, surprisingly assured considering you’ve only just come off the book. But you’re being far too nice. Too polite. Find your mean streak.’ Flora wondered briefly if Colin had one and decided it was unlikely. ‘You’re absolutely livid with this woman. What she’s done, what she is, repels you. But I think at the same time, it also quite excites you. It’s a bugger of a scene to play because you’ve got to get both those aspects and they’re contradictory.’

  Colin nodded and looked at Flora, his frank brown eyes enquiring. ‘Do you think there’s an incest thing going on here?’

  Flora faltered for a moment. ‘Between Hamlet and his mother?’

  ‘Yes. Or d’you think that’s reading too much into it?’

  ‘No… No, I don’t. This is centuries before Freud but I think Hamlet gets worked up about her nocturnal activities because he’s jealous. Maybe he was even jealous of Hamlet Senior when he was alive. Who knows? Shakespeare set this scene in Gertrude’s closet, in her bedroom. It couldn’t have a more intimate or suggestive setting, could it? And as you’ve already discovered, unless Hamlet throws her on the bed for all the wrestling, you end up playing the scene to the floor. So go for the sex. Be an animal, Colin, don’t be nice. Scare the wits out of her. Lose control. I know you can’t do that in performance, but this is only a rehearsal, so see how far you can push it.’ Flora turned to Stephanie and asked belatedly, ‘OK, Stephanie?’